


On Cupid's Arrow I Shall Ride

by duesternis



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Gift Giving, Hand Jobs, M/M, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, Victorian Flower Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:08:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29441673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duesternis/pseuds/duesternis
Summary: George had washed his back, between his fingers, the nape of his neck, while Henry cried.He couldn’t bear being touched by anyone of their rescuers, couldn’t look most of the crew in the eye, and spend almost every moment at Captain Fitzjames’ sickbed.It had taken some ungentle needling, a spot of man-handling and at the end a stern order from George to get him in the tub.It would be the first time he washed Henry, but by far not the last.“Comforting,” called Henry it as George had soaped his hair and beard, the foam taking a sickening shade of grey, grit under George’s fingernails.“Overdue,” answered George with a gentle pull on Henry’s hair and Henry’s face had slackened for the first time in weeks. The strain seeped out of him like the dirt running down his back in rivulets and George had been a bit less tender with rubbing soap into his scalp after that.
Relationships: Lt George Hodgson/Lt Henry T.D. Le Vesconte
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12
Collections: The Terror Rarepair Week 2021





	On Cupid's Arrow I Shall Ride

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's day!!

February, truly a miserable month, even in the countryside – or maybe especially in the countryside, with everything still grey and slumbering and the occasional late snowfall that did nothing but sog your boots through – had one shining beacon that made it worthwhile.  
And no, not the fact that it was shorter than the other months, and therefore spring came around much quicker than it would otherwise.  
It had the fourteenth.  
A gifting opportunity, if George had ever seen one.

And Henry had written, had promised to come on the twelfth the latest, so they may spend a few days together by the fire, read and laugh and – if the mood was right and the gifts were good – kiss and hold one another.  
George fully planned on the gifts being good.  
There was that new brush he had bought shortly after Christmas, Valentine’s Day already firmly in mind. The diamond cravat needle that reminded him so much of how Henry’s eyes sparkled in the light of the sun.  
Now he only needed the perfect card and maybe a little locket, for Henry’s watch chain, that could hold a lock of hair.  
And the courage to snip a lock of hair off his head and give it to him. The implications were heavy and binding and well, Henry had always been rather a free spirit and George would hate to clip his wings, force him to nest and settle, when he did not want to.  
It had the potential to either destroy their attachment, or make it grow ten-fold.  
He would decide when he had the locket.

Which meant a little trip into town.  
The dogs would be glad for a change of scenery too, George was sure, and the staff glad to have him out of the house for a few hours, at least.  
“Eunice,” he called, flipping through the morning’s correspondence.  
A letter from Edward, one from his solicitor and one forwarded from his club in London.  
“Sir, you called?”  
Eunice’s dark hair had half escaped from her bun, curls bouncing around her cheeks.  
“Yes! I’ll be out later, have to pop into town for a moment, so please have Mr Cushing ready a horse for me.”  
“Certainly, sir. You’ll be going alone?”  
“Me and the dogs, it’s just a small personal matter.”  
“Shall you be home for supper?”  
“I think yes, but not tea.”  
Eunice curtsied and walked away, leaving the door ajar.

George tended to his correspondence, whistled for the dogs and went upstairs to get dressed for the ride into town.  
The horse awaited him saddled and held by Mr Cushing.  
“Mr Hodgson, sir, got her here for you, all ready to go. Mind, she has new shoes, so she might be a bit unsure on the mud.”  
“Thank you, Mr Cushing, I’ll have her back in time for her supper.”  
The dogs wagged their tails as George mounted the horse and off they were at a whistle and a gentle heel for the horse.

For once it was neither raining nor overly windy, and – knowing that it was mostly futile, but still – George hoped the weather would hold for the whole trip, so that he wouldn’t have to eat supper completely waterlogged or eat it cold after a bath.  
Since coming home he had found himself thouroughly incapable of taking short baths. The longer and hotter the better he found.  
Certainly multiplied into the infinite by the right company.

Riding down the muddy road, hillside in its winter stupor still, George let his mind travel, one eye always on the dogs running alongside the horse, another one on the road, thoughts somewhere else entirely.  
Henry sitting in a wooden tub, tears cutting streaks through the filth on his cheeks, trickling into his thick beard.  
George had washed his back, between his fingers, the nape of his neck, while Henry cried.  
He couldn’t bear being touched by anyone of their rescuers, couldn’t look most of the crew in the eye, and spend almost every moment at Captain Fitzjames’ sickbed.  
It had taken some ungentle needling, a spot of man-handling and at the end a stern order from George to get him in the tub.  
It would be the first time he washed Henry, but by far not the last.  
“Comforting,” called Henry it as George had soaped his hair and beard, the foam taking a sickening shade of grey, grit under George’s fingernails.  
“Overdue,” answered George with a gentle pull on Henry’s hair and Henry’s face had slackened for the first time in weeks. The strain seeped out of him like the dirt running down his back in rivulets and George had been a bit less tender with rubbing soap into his scalp after that.  
And even as the comb – missing plenty of teeth – had snagged on Henry’s hair, scratched his scalp, he had not complained once.  
Gorgeous, big hands folded in his lap, wrapped up in a towel like a greek poet he had sat there, head bowed, and George had combed the tangles out of his silver hair.  
They both cried the cleansing tears of the exhausted.  
After that Henry had started coming out of the shell he had built around himself, showing the raw, bruised insides of his soul.

A bird called and George came out of his daydream, his little wander down memory lane, to the answering barks his dogs gave.  
He whistled to them, adjusted his hat and slowed the horse to a trot, the path riddled with stones here and it would certainly be unpleasant for all involved, if the poor horse would twist her ankle or get a stone lodged in her shoe.  
And it wasn’t far into town now either.  
Not more than half an hour later George saw the quaint little town curl around the curving road at the bottom of the hill. Smoke rising from the chimneys, people walking through the main thoroughfare.  
He halted the horse for a moment on the ridge, dogs panting to his right, tongues lolling and tails wagging.  
In a few days’ time Henry’s coach would carry him through here, and all the way that George had come today up to the house.  
George would await him on the steps, shake his hand and have Mr Cushing carry Henry’s bags upstairs, while they took tea in the drawing room.

Oh, he could hardly wait for it.

With a click of the tongue and gentle heels the horse started her trot again and the dogs leapt into action.  
With every minute they came closer to town did the sounds of it increase.  
Clanging from the blacksmith, calls and laughter from the market street, children playing, the church bells ringing the quarter hour.  
The dogs kept close to the horse as soon as they passed the town boundary, and George praised them in a low tone, always happy to see them behave well in company.  
That he also let them nap on the couch and fed them from the table sometimes, well, that was his own business, or was it not?  
He dismounted his horse by the pub, had it stabled by the boy there, who treated him with casual disinterest at best.  
Ah, the indifference of teenaged boys!

The dogs followed George dutifully and he pocketed his riding gloves, took his hat off and mopped sweat off his brow with his handkerchief.  
Even in February a swift ride brought sweat to his brow.  
Well, even in the biting cold of the Arctic he had sweated like a man possessed, a man stranded on a tropical island, sun beating his brow into submission every step of the way.  
George shook those thoughts off like a dog shed water from its coat and turned into market street, headed for the tailor’s shop.  
From his last visit George remembered a showcase of a few pieces of jewellery – cufflinks, rings, a necklace and several pairs of earrings – and maybe the man had small lockets that would serve the intended purpose.  
“Wait,” he told the dogs by the stairs of the shop and they primly sat under the awning.  
He rubbed their soft ears and leapt up the steps, making the doorbell jangle with his overjoyed opening of the door.

“Good day, sir,” said the attendant from behind the counter, still putting a box in the high shelf, perched on a step ladder, back turned to George, “How may I help?”  
He turned on the ladder, smiling.  
Young, a smart little beard, hair falling over his forehead and a bit of dust on the back of his nose, he reminded George of someone, but he couldn’t place it.  
He smiled back at the lad and walked up to the counter.  
“Hello, I am looking for a locket, to put on a watch chain and wanted to inquire if you might happen to have something like that for sale. Preferably silver, with a neutral design, so that initials may be embossed on it, but a tasteful wreath would not go amiss, I think.”

The attendant stepped off the ladder and lead George over to the showcase, where – on velvet pillows and in little boxes – jewellery gleamed.  
“We do have a small selection of lockets, sir, right here on the third shelf. I can take them out for you, if you’d like.”  
“Oh, please do!”  
Four lockets lined up a moment later on the counter, a lamp moved close, so that George may see them in as much light as possible, with the February gloom darkening the store.  
It was an easy choice, in the end, with two lockets being too large for what George had in mind, and one remaining locket being gold.  
The silver one was perfect; small, a delicate wreath of greenery embossed around the edge, the inside deep enough for a lock of hair, and the attendant promised George to have Henry’s initials embossed by the end of the week and the locket send up to the house.  
They shook hands and George turned into the post office to inquire after Valentine’s cards.  
An hour later he had a card for Henry and went to fetch his horse, the sky darkening to an unattractive shade of purple, courtesy of a handful of heavy clouds threatening the weak sun.  
He hoped the weather would turn to sunshine before Henry came.

The weather did indeed turn on the day Henry arrived at the house: Sunshine without end, the greys and browns of the ending season interspersed with the first delicate greens.  
George was exuberant, up for hours already when breakfast was finally served.  
He ate little, drank too much tea and paced the front parlour, overlooking the yard, so he could see the coach as soon as it drew near.  
Just, as fate so often wants it, he was absent – thanks to the never-emptying pot of tea at his elbow – when Henry finally pulled up.  
Standing in the parlour, gloves in hand and shirt deliciously wrinkled from his journey he waited for George and George thought he was somehow fallen asleep and dreaming, for it could not be.

Henry, in any state of undress in his parlour, as if he were as much owner of the house as George himself, sipping tea from George’s cup, his coat carelessly thrown over the chaiselongue, his jacket too.  
Why he still had his gloves in his free hand was beyond George, but it added to the dream-like quality of it all.

“Oh, am I dreaming, my dearest man?”  
Henry turned on the heel of his dusty boot and grinned, a hint of stubble on his cheeks.  
“I don’t know. Are you?”  
George crossed the threshold, arms outstretched, and Henry put his tea cup aside, gloves next to the saucer.  
They took each other by the elbows, kissed cheeks, looked at each other.  
“You’re unshaven, Henry.”  
“Rough night in the coach, I wanted to be here as quick as I could.”  
“Oh, dear man! You should have taken at least a few hours rest and a fresh shirt! What of the horses?”  
“We changed them at a post station – outrageous fee, but I payed gladly.”  
George sighed and kissed Henry’s stubbly cheek again.  
He smelled of dust and sweat, a bare hint of his cologne still clinging to his skin.  
“Come, then, let’s get you settled.”

Henry smiled and slid his hand from George’s elbow to the back of his arm, pulling him closer, into a proper embrace.  
George leaned against Henry, eyes closed, their hearts thudding warmly in unison.  
“I saw you and was settled, old man.”  
“Please, stop with the flattery, I shall blush like a maiden, if you do go on, Henry!”  
“Promise?”  
Henry pulled back a bit to leer at George, eyes alight with something unspeakable.  
“Fiend,” said George with a smile and kissed Henry’s cheek for the third time.

They stepped apart and then George led the way upstairs to Henry’s guest room.  
Fresh flowers on the chest of drawers, the linens fresh and crisp, the room aired out and free of dust.  
“Here, I hope you shall find it comfortable, my dear Henry, and know that I am just next door, so should you be in need of company in the night or early morning, feel free to slip in, I shan’t be angry with you.”  
Henry laughed and looped an arm around George’s waist.  
They were quite alone on the first floor.  
“The same to you, George, love. I do not intend to sleep without you near, not as long as I am here.”  
“Well, well, dear sir.”

George turned his head to face Henry and Henry leaned in, rubbing their noses together, before kissing him softly.  
With a sigh George threaded his fingers through Henry’s thick hair, pressed up against him to make up for Henry’s height, licked into his mouth.  
Henry adjusted his hold around George’s waist, taking some of his weight to lift him on the tips of his toes.  
George laughed into the kiss and felt Henry grin against his mouth.  
They parted, noses brushing again.  
“Showing off, Mr LeVesconte?”  
“Maybe, Mr Hodgson. Do you take affront?”  
Henry had him still up on his toes.  
“Not in the least, dear man. But we should get you washed up, you’ve dust behind your ears.”  
“Better dust than greenery.”  
“Weak, Henry, very weak.”

Henry laughed and George smiled, undid Henry’s stock, the silk sliding whisper-soft over the fine linen of his shirt.  
The collar fell open, unearthing the breathtaking sweep of Henry’s throat, the little grove – perfect for kisses - between his clavicles, and then their almost delicate jut.  
George pressed his nose to the warm skin.  
Henry gently put his cheek atop his head and they slowly sank into each other, came to each other fully, resting in the warmth between them.

Two days passed like a dream within a dream, all softness and laughter.

The morning of the fourteenth dawned rose-coloured through the mist hanging over the sprawling landscape, and George woke to Henry’s gentle snoring in his ear.  
The blankets were pulled up around them, the room cool outside the bed and Henry gladly stretched under the blankets and nestled more firmly against his bedmate.  
Henry grunted, clumsy hands on George’s naked back and a sloppy kiss on his brow.  
“Did I wake you, Henry?”  
All George got as answer was a long groan and a soft pinch to his hip.  
He chuckled and kissed Henry’s jaw, his throat, the warm skin over his heart.  
That he had to dislodge the blankets for that, cool air rushing into their nest was a price he was willing to pay for Henry’s skin under his lips.  
Henry was not so ready to sacrifice his warm cocoon.

“George,” he complained, shivering in George’s arms. “George, it’s too early to get up, go back to sleep.”  
“It’s Valentine’s, love.”  
“So? It’s still going to be Valentine’s in a couple of hours.”  
Instead of answering George just slipped completely under the blankets, kissing his way down Henry’s warm chest.  
Each dusky nipple, palmed the curvature of his ribs, Henry arching into the touches, chest expanding with a deep breath.

George went on, kissing down to the navel, across the plane of Henry’s stomach to his hip, where he bit down gently on the bone.  
One of Henry’s hands found its way into George’s sleep-mussed hair, giving his scalp a little scratching, not unlike what Henry always did with the dogs.  
George liked it as much as they did.  
He kissed down the slope of Henry’s hip, until he felt his pubic hair against his own unshaven chin.  
And the heat of Henry’s growing erection.

George crawled back up along Henry’s body, wedging his thigh between Henry’s legs.  
It made Henry moan in a most delightful manner.  
“Lord, George, you’re a teasing, vile creature.”  
George laughed and kissed Henry properly.  
It was a bit raspy, with them both unshaven, and sloppy; also quite loud.  
Henry rutted against George’s thigh in a slow circle, his hot flesh pressing firmly into Henry.

“How do you feel about getting up now?”  
“Still absolutely unconvinced, George, but I am pleasently engaged currently, so I shan’t go back to sleep.”  
“Glad to hear.”  
They shifted on the mattress, until Henry was above George, his arms left and right of George’s head, their pricks sliding against each other. George had one leg hooked over the back of Henry’s thigh, pulling him as close as possible.  
“Happy Valentine’s Day, my dear Valentine.”  
“The same to you, Valentine.”

They kissed again, noses bumping and lips catching on teeth, but there was no rush to it, no need to perfect it.  
It was nice to feel Henry wake up with every little kiss, his tongue ever more elegant in its ministrations, his movements not picking up speed, but direction and purpose.  
George nestled into the pillows, gripped two handfuls of Henry’s hair and pulled him down, so that they lay flush together, from head to toe.  
“I missed you,” he said and Henry blushed a bright pink over the bridge of his nose.  
“Me too.”  
They smiled, kissed again, and Henry extended a long arm for the second drawer of the nightstand, and the oil there within.

“Oh,” said George, pushing half up on his elbows. “While you are at that drawer, there’s a little box and letter for you, my dear.”  
“Oho, gifts?”  
“Just something small.”  
Henry laughed, handed the oil off to George and then took possession of the letter and box, opening the envelope first.  
The card within was a dream of lace and birds, a little banner held between the beaks of the birds proclaimed in swirly letters “For my Beloved now and evermore”, and George was quite sure that Henry would like it.  
And judging from his slack-jawed smile, the sparkle in his eyes, he did.

“Oh George, darling! That’s gorgeous! Look at the birds, as if they were ready to fly off the page at any given moment!”  
George smiled and arranged the pillows so that he could comfortably recline against them and watch Henry read the card with an evergrowing besotted smile.  
When he closed it again Henry leaned forward and kissed George sweetly on the lips.  
“Thank you, my heart.”  
“Oh, please. Open the box, Henry.”  
“You and your gifts, George.”  
Henry untied the little ribbon with a grin and opened the small box, immediately gasping – not unlike a Lady, but George would keep that observation to himself – and plucked the cravat needle out of it’s velvet bed.

The diamon glinted, even in the dim light of the morning and nothing else, and Henry’s eyes did much the same as he beheld it.  
Slowly he turned it to and fro in his hand, watching the light gleam over the polished stone. His thumb rubbed the golden stem in a caress and George smiled.  
“You like it? I thought of you immediately when I saw it in the shop, the gleam and glint, like your eyes. And you have that ivory cravat, which, in my opinion, could be greatly improved by a little something in the knot. So I got you a little something, my dear.”  
“George, I shall kiss you now. Prepare yourself.”  
“Alas, come forth then.”

Henry laughed, put the needle aside again and then took George’s face into both his palms, long fingers stroking his hair.  
The tips of their noses met, once, twice. George smiled, hands on Henry’s knees, where they bracketed his hips.  
Henry’s long nose slid along George’s and then Henry kissed him.  
Warm and soft and with an underlying fire to it that made George trail his hands higher on Henry’s legs.

Gradually Henry lay down again, half on top of George and half next to him, the bottle of oil bumping their sides whenever they moved on the mattress.  
George took it in hand, blindly unstoppered it and slicked his hands generously. Henry helped him with the bottle and set it aside on the nightstand.  
Then George reached between their warm bodies and, with a happy little grunt, oiled Henry’s warm prick, the blood rushing back to it under George’s touch.  
They both sighed.  
Henry kissed under George’s ear, down the side of his neck and then gently bit at his collarbone.  
George arched into it, locked hands with Henry and Henry squeezed his palm tightly, oil slicking the contact into something filthy and delightful.  
Then Henry in turn took George’s prick into a tight fist, making George grunt again.

“Henry, please.”  
With a kiss to the hollow of George’s throat Henry loosened the circle of his fingers and started frigging George with ease.  
The favour was gladly returned, outside the birds singing, and inside Henry sighing so beautifully into George’s ear, his every moan and shudder the most compelling symphony that George had ever heard.  
Neither of them lasted particularly long in the familiar embrace and, after a warm half hour spent napping – seed half-drying on their thighs and hands – they rolled out of bed, washed and shaved with the cold water in George’s washstand.

“Sit down, Henry, I’ll brush your hair out.”  
With a little indulgent smile Henry sat, naked as the day he was born, in George’s chair by the vanity. George kissed the slope of his shoulder, sucked a mark into the pale skin and Henry gasped, one hand flying into George’s hair.  
“George, God, stop, stop, we’ll never get dressed, if you don’t stop.”  
“Hmm,” George let go of Henry and stepped back, admiring his handiwork, “I wouldn’t be against having you undressed all day, my dear, I truly must say. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”  
Henry laughed now, turned half in the chair and kissed George’s chest, right over his heart, nuzzling against him for a moment.  
George closed his eyes and held him there.  
It was as if the first rays of the spring sun were touching the deepest, darkest corners of his heart – perpetually frozen over – and the thaw began.  
Henry kissed George’s chest again and then leaned back, chin digging faintly into George’s breastbone.  
“Hair?”

“Yes, darling.”  
George stepped over to his chest of drawers and opened the first one, taking the new brush out of its wrapping paper.  
“George, there’s a brush here,” said Henry, lifting George’s own ivory brush up.  
“Yes, I know. I have one for you, though.”  
Henry laughed incredulously, looking at George through the mirror.  
“You spoil me rotten, George, and you know it. I don’t have so many gifts for you.”  
“You being here is gift enough, and I need nothing, you are aware. With you here I have all I could ever need in life.”  
George lifted the silver brush, with its beautiful white bristles up and Henry smiled, nodding.  
“It is beautiful.”  
“There are birds on the back, I thought you might like them, they somehow made me think of you.”

Slowly George started brushing Henry’s thick, silver hair out, running his fingers through it before he brushed.  
He prattled on about the brush, the design, the shop where he had bought it, then he took a meander down memory lane, revisiting last year’s Christmas.  
Henry sat there and listened and laughed and tilted his head into George’s touches. Whenever their eyes met in the mirror they both smiled, Henry’s cheeks a fetching blossom pink, and George kissed both of them when he was finished with brushing Henry’s hair.  
“There you are, my dear man, handsome as ever.”

Henry pulled George into his lap, kissed his cheeks and then took the brush from his hands, kissing both of those too.  
“Thank you, George.”  
George tucked a strand of Henry’s hair behind his ear and got up.  
They dressed quietly, side by side, helping each other with their neckties and jackets.  
Henry had George turn once, to make sure he was dolled up properly, and then kissed the crown of his head.  
“You look splendid.”  
“And you, good sir. Breakfast?”  
“Please, I am half-starved.”  
George chuckled, patted Henry’s well-padded side and kissed his chin.  
“Shan’t let you starve fully, rest assured.”  
“Much obliged.”

They took breakfast in the orangery, sunlight through the glassroof and orchids all around them, filling the air with a scent of tropics, of warmer climes and the idea of exotic birds. Which really should be more than an idea, and George would see to it and accquire one or two colourful parrots.  
Henry liked the idea, when he immediately shared it.  
“Best to get some advice, first, not that they eat the flowers, in the end.”  
George laughed and agreed, pulling his chair back and coming eye to eye with an envelope and a flat box on the seat of his chair.  
“Oh!”  
“For you, darling man.”

Henry passed behind George and gave his arm a squeeze, before taking his own seat.  
He poured tea for them both – the maid advised to stay away unless called for, since they had a lot of catching up to do, and would prefer not to be interrupted – and watched George open the envelope.  
“Pretty wax, new? You’ve never used this kind of colour on your letters before, Henry.”  
George looked up but Henry simply pointed at the envelope with his fork, already chewing.  
The card inside was in a heart shape and the outside was ornamented with a shadow cut of two people sitting on a bench, rose bushes around them.  
Touching the two be-trousered people fondly George opened the card, read the flowing lines of poetry in Henry’s fine hand with a thudding heart, tears pricking at his eyes.  
He was quite overcome with emotion by the end of it and looked up at Henry with a helpless smile, tears threatening the card now truly.  
With shaking hands he leaned it against the milk jug to gaze upon.

“Alright, George,” asked Henry between two bites of toast, mischief in his tone.  
“You fiend, I am quite fine. Very fine indeed.”  
George dabbed his eyes with the corner of his napkin and shook his head. Henry knocked his feet against George’s under the table.  
“Open the box.”  
With a little laugh George picked at the blue cord, fingers still shaking a bit, eyes drifting back to the card again and again.  
So it was much to George’s surprise when Henry suddenly kneeled at his side and gently pried his fingers from the knot.  
“Come, dear George, let me.”  
“Thank you, I find my hands are a bit shaky today.”

Henry smiled and kissed them, then undid the cord with ease.  
He lifted the lid of the box and George brushed the wrapping tissue aside, loving the delicate crinkling sound of it, and the faint smell of perfume coming from it.  
“Your own scent, Henry?”  
“I knew you would like it.”  
They kissed over the open box, the last sheet of wrapping tissue still keeping the gift hidden.  
George licked his lips and lifted it away.

Only to be presented with the most gorgeous waistcoat he had ever seen.  
“Henry!”

The yellow silk was embroidered all over with forget-me-nots, little clusters of three flowers repeating from shoulder seams to hem.  
With a little gasp he touched the soft fabric, the fine flowers, the glass buttons, painted with forget-me-nots too.  
“Oh, Henry.”  
Carefully George lifted the garment from the box, the back of the waistcoat done in a blue-purple silk the exact colour of the embroidered flowers, and he wanted to weep over the beauty of it.  
He did not recognize the tailor’s label, but admired the fine work and passion that had gone into every seam and stitch.  
“You like it, then?”  
George kissed Henry’s cheek, tucked hair behind his ear.  
“It’s a kingly gift, Henry, I love it!”  
He laughed, stood and swapped his old waistcoat – fine as it was, it would forever remain a favourite, just no longer The Favourite - for the new one.  
It fit like a glove.

“Hmm,” said Henry, tugging on the hem. “Perfect. The perfect waistcoat for the perfect man.”  
“You flatter me unduly, dear man.”  
“Nonsense. You should see yourself. Like looking at spring incarnate, George.”  
Henry leaned in and kissed the corner of George’s mouth, smiled at him and sat back down, happy to dig back into his eggs.  
George joined him, chattering more about birds and flowers and happily omitted the significance of the flowers he was now wearing on his breast.  
Neither did Henry remark on them, but they both knew that the other was perfectly aware of them.  
A quiet promise between them.

After breakfast they took a turn about the garden and beyond, arm in arm, and bundled up against the wet cold not even the merry sun could yet chase away completely.  
It was pleasant to walk with no need for haste, no real goal in mind but to move and feel fresh air on their faces and enjoy the company.  
The dogs ran circles around them, chasing each other and the birds and sometimes the shadows of the clouds speeding on overhead.  
But without fail they always returned to George and Henry on their trail, and yipped, until Henry rubbed their ears with his big, warm hands, or George praised them for their good chase.

They returned back to the house long after lunch, famished and chilled to the bone, but happier than a pig in mud could ever be.  
Together they sat by the roaring fire in the drawing room, had a very late lunch – or quite early tea – continuing their conversation from the walk.  
The dogs slept on the hearthrug, long snouts tucked together.  
After a glass of brandy each they sat quietly, looking into the fire, be-slippered feet touching on the rug.  
Henry lazily checked his pocketwatch, telling George the time with that amused air of someone who has no idea when the day passed them by so completely.  
“My, that time already? Keep the watch out a moment will you.”  
“Do you not trust my ability to read its face properly?”  
“That too,” said George and walked over to his escritoire, fetching the locket in its satchel from a locked drawer.  
The little velvet satchel he pocketed, locket in hand and knelt by Henry’s armchair.  
“George?”

Henry dropped his watch into his lap, smiled at George and smoothed his thumb over George’s cheekbone. Which meant that George was already blushing and that Henry found it adorable.  
“Here, dear Henry,” murmured George and then hooked the small locket to the middle of the watch-chain, so that it may hang freely of buttons and pockets.  
“What’s this? Another gift?” Henry laughed and inspected the locket, his one hand still on George’s face. “My, you truly spoil me rotten, darling! What fine handiwork!”  
“Open it, then.”  
Henry looked at George, a sly turn about his mouth, expecting some kind of joke, maybe.  
“You have something in it already?”  
“You needn’t keep it in, if you do not like it.”

With a little laugh Henry opened the locket and then sighed, mouth pulling into a smile.  
Reverently he touched a thumb to the little gather of blond hair, the fine curl of it, before looking at George again.  
“My George, you have me truly eating out of your hand now. How shall I ever love another when you treat me so, pamper me so?”  
“Well, I hope you shan’t, simple as that.”  
George smiled and pecked Henry on the lips, standing on creaking knees, and sat in his armchair again.  
“I would never betray your hopes, so there we have it: You’re stuck with me.”  
“The horror, truly.”

“I pity you, George. Let us go to Paris come spring, to comiserate together, and mourn your predicament, stuck with a grey peacock past his prime.”  
“Well, if I must go to Paris, I could not go gladder with anyone other than you, my dear.”  
“It is decided then,” said Henry with a solemn nod, snapped the locket closed, pocketed his watch and smiled at George over the insurmountable divide of the two feet distance between their armchairs.  
George smiled back and pulled his book out from behind the pillow in his back, to read to Henry where they had left off last night before retiring upstairs.

**Author's Note:**

> Forget me nots in the Victorian Flower Language mean the following things: 
> 
> True love: The Forget me not flower represents true love and giving someone this flower means you truly love and respect this person. This beautiful flower might not the as elegant as a rose flower, but it has a strong meaning that overcomes its appearance and size. You can always give this flower to your partner to surprise him to her and to show your true emotions.
> 
> Fidelity: The forget me not flower is a symbol of fidelity and being truthful to someone you love. This flower is going to tell your loved one that you are faithful and that you don’t have an intention to hurt this person. Receiving this flower from the person you love also means this person is faithful to you and that this person cares deeply for you.
> 
> Long-lasting connection: The forgot me not flower represents long lasting connections that can exist between not only lovers, but also friends. This flower is telling you that there is a strong connection between you and the person who is gifting you this this flower. This connection can’t be broken or shaken by anything or anyone.


End file.
